


Growing Pains

by Chocchi



Series: Recovery Process [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, M/M, what is this even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocchi/pseuds/Chocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are people you hate with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, people you simply can't stand, people you tolerate, and people you actually really, really kind of love a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was just going to be a cute little drabble with little Dave and his Bro.  
> But then I got mobbed by plot bunnies.  
> So this kind of drags on and on to the point where I just split it into two chapters.  
> Anyway, if you enjoy this or you have some concrit you'd like to give me, please go ahead and leave a comment, it will make my day!

Your name is Dirk Strider and at sixteen years old there are exactly three people you really, truly give a damn about; one of them is Jake English, your handsome, charming upperclassman with just the most fucking _adorable_ smile, and one is Roxy Lalonde, your half-sister soulmate-BFF ( _her words, not yours_ ).

The last one, and pretty much your priority most of the time, is your little brother, Dave Strider, who is currently crying his eyes out in front of you. _Fuck_.

He must have crashed his bike while you weren’t paying attention, you realize with a pang of guilt, as you shove yourself off the porch into a standing position. He’s disentangled himself already, but the bike lies wrecked a few feet away from him, along with the little pair of shades you gave him for his birthday last year. They’re broken beyond repair. Dave, fortunately, is not. But he is covered in messy, bloody scrapes and dirt. When he notices you taking hurried strides in his direction, he scrubs at his eyes furiously and manages to reduce the tears to sniffles.

What a fucking little trooper, you think as you crouch beside him, but out loud you say, “Crashed yer bike, huh?”

He scowls up at you through his tears, probably certain you’re going to make fun of him or chastise him for failing to be an emotionless tough guy. Instead, you stretch your arms out to him. “C’mere, kiddo.”

He hesitantly reaches back, and you scoop him up, inwardly fretting that he’s too small and skinny for his age and has he been eating enough, because fuck being a cool guy. Every kid needs someone to look after them, and you’re not gonna leave Dave to rot with strangers just because you have a reputation to maintain. You’re especially not going to leave him to the people who just sent him off on a bike, sans training wheels, when you clearly told them that he’d never learned to ride.

(“No child of mine could possibly fail at cycling,” your foster father had laughed, confidently, then gaped in indignance and surprise when you shot back,

“Well that’s just fuckin’ fantastic, but he’s _not yours_.”)

“Let’s go inside and get you cleaned up,” you say, shifting Dave in your arms so his banged-up knee isn’t being pressed into the rough fabric of your shirt. You notice the frantic look he gives his little shades, still lying in pieces on the sidewalk, and add, “Don’t worry ‘bout those, I’ll get you new ones.”

He hesitates, then nods and buries his face in your shoulder with a quiet mumble of “Thanks, Bro.”

Your heart swells, but you’re too busy trying to open the door without dropping him to offer more than a distracted, “Don’t mention it, kid.”

 

Your foster mother knocks at the bathroom door as you’re trying to figure out how to put the gauze pad on his knee in a way that won’t mean taping over the littler scrapes, and calls through the wood, “Dirk, darling, your friend is here.”

“Roxy?” Dave asks you, hopefully, as you finally give up and grab the roll of gauze bandages instead.

“Roxy,” you confirm, absentmindedly hoping that she knows a little more about first aid than you do. You think she took that Red Cross course once, maybe, possibly? Dave is sitting patiently on the closed lid of the toilet, far more tolerant of your ignorance than a six-year-old has any right to be, and you can’t even find the hydrogen peroxide. You can’t ask your foster parents where it is, either, because then they’ll want to know why you need it, and you are one hundred percent positive that regardless of the fact that they’re the ones who put him on a bike and told him to make it happen, they will blame you for his injuries.

Roxy, it turns out, carries a first-aid kit in her purse, complete with a tiny bottle of hydrogen peroxide. You use it to dab at the scrapes while she pulls Dave into her lap and assures him that it’s not his fault, riding a bike is hard and once he’d gotten it down he’d be the best bicyclist in the state, maybe even the country. He gives you a look of exasperation-- a look of _gosh, I’m already six, I’m not a little kid anymore, how young does she think I am to go for this_ \-- and you have to concentrate harder on the work at hand so you don’t emotion all over your face.

 

The next afternoon finds you and Roxy standing, side by side, on the front porch, as you watch your crush of two years teach your little brother how to ride a bike. You’re not sure how you feel about this. Roxy notices and gives you a supportive pat on the back.

“He’s growing up, isn’t he?”

“Which one of them?” you drawl, and she laughs. You’re glad to have her, you think. You’re glad to have all three of them. You think that if these three people were the only people you ever interacted with for the rest of your life, you would be satisfied with that.

 

You’re seventeen and Roxy is off on some adventure or another when you meet Jane Crocker. It is a long story that maybe you will tell another time (or more likely, she will tell another time), but for now you think it will suffice to say that the number climbs to four.

Roxy congratulates you on having remarkably good taste in women, for a homosexual, and you are pleased to see that you aren’t the only one Jane deigns to abuse with her physics textbook. Almost as pleased as you are that the both of them clearly adore each other.

At the end of the year, Jake graduates from high school. He’s already been accepted to some college or another, on the other side of the country at _least_ (if it’s not _out_ of the country), and you try to be happy for him. You exchange little more than a bro-hug and promises to write when he drops by your foster home, at the end of the summer, to say goodbye. Dave complains, clinging to his leg, and Jake just laughs and pinky-swears to come back and visit sometime. He leaves knowing nothing about your feelings, and you try to tell yourself, as your heart breaks all at once, that it’s better this way.

 

You spend the beginning of your senior year trying not to sulk.

Jane had only a vague notion that you were more fond of Jake than you generally let on, and so she hesitates to identify it as the cause of your distress, but assures you that everything will turn out alright nonetheless. Roxy knows everything from your shoe size to your favorite kind of cereal to the way you like your eggs, but isn’t much better at comfort than you are; from her you just receive occasional sympathetic hugs whenever she can tell you’re feeling particularly down.

Dave is the only thing that really keeps you going, in the end-- you desperately need to do well in school so you can get a good job, as soon as possible, and get him out of this goddamn hellhole. He deserves to grow up in a house with his own room and a competent guardian, not sharing the equivalent of a closet with you under the watchful sneers of your foster parents. He’s a smart, talented kid, and if nobody fucks him up you think he could really go far.

You wait maybe an entire hour after your graduation ceremony is over before you call a lawyer and ask what you need to do to get custody.

 

Your apartment in Houston isn’t everything you’ve ever hoped for, but the rent is cheap and Dave has his own room, so you don’t mind climbing a fuckton of stairs and sleeping on a futon in the living room. You’re comfortable enough with your income (having unleashed your talents as a DJ upon the unsuspecting city, you soon downgrade from a full-time pizza delivery guy to a part-time pizza delivery guy) that you buy a few incredibly shitty swords off eBay, and start taking your little bro up on the roof to teach him how to fight.

You’ve just come inside from one such training session when your cell phone rings. You’re both hot, sweaty and tired, but you let Dave take the first cold shower so you can answer it. You press the talk button and raise it to your ear without checking the caller ID.

“Strider speakin’.”

“Lalonde calling,” Roxy says, and you raise an eyebrow in surprise. You haven’t seen much of the ladies since you left town, as they opted to stay in New York and fawn over each other instead. “How’s my favorite pair of brothers doing?”

“Just dandy,” you mutter as you reach into the freezer, groping around for the ice tray only to find it empty. “Goddammit.”

In the background, you hear Jane grumble something along the lines of “I hope he’s not teaching Dave that language” and you add, “You have me on speakerphone?”

“What did you even expect from me, Strider?” Roxy huffs. You roll your eyes as she continues, “How’s the whole ‘homeschooling’ idea coming along?”

“Kid’s passing all the state exams they throw at him with flying colors, so I must be doing something right,” you say, giving up on your search for something to cool yourself down with to lean against the kitchen counter. “Really fuckin’ annoying to have the CPS breathin’ down my neck all the time, though.”

“I can imagine,” Roxy snickers, then falls silent. Roxy usually runs at the mouth until you force her to shut up, especially when Jane’s anywhere near her, so it’s weird. You’ve trained yourself too well to let it show on your face, but you’re a little apprehensive now.

“Why’d you really call, Lalonde?”

“What’re you talking about?” she replies, immediately, like she knew that was what you were going to ask all along, and yep. Definitely apprehensive. What is this girl up to.

“You don’t call,” you remind her, and you know she hears all the unspoken implications. You’re right, of course-- neither of you ever calls. When you want to catch up, you fall back on Pesterchum, and if one of you is offline and you’re desperate for contact, you text. You are down three of your four tolerable people and you still can’t be assed to verbally communicate. “So what’s up.”

“I got a call from my aunt,” she finally says. “Earlier this afternoon.”

“We have an aunt?” you ask.

“ _I_ have an aunt,” she clarifies. “My mother’s sister.”

“News to me.”

“It was news to me, too,” she grumbles, and you care enough to feel a little bad for her. After all the shit the two of you have been through, at least _one_ of you deserves to have had another family member to help you through it. Where the hell has this aunt of hers been? “And she has a daughter, as well.”

“Your cousin,” you deadpan, and the humorless chuckle she lets out just really maxes out your nerves.

“My cousin,” she repeats, “And our half-sister.”

Your brain just _stops_.

Dave walks into the room, wet and shirtless, and raises an eyebrow at your blank, unseeing expression. “You alright, Bro?”

What little girl deserves to grow up shadowed by the same things you’re shadowed by? What little girl deserves to grow up shadowed by the same things you’re shadowed by, _without_ the support of Roxy Lalonde?

How many more unfortunate kids has he fathered, lives has he ruined, childhoods has he fucked over?

Dave sighs in a put-upon sort of way and takes your phone from you, tucking it between his shoulder and ear with a “hey, sorry ‘bout him, ‘sup?”. You can see him smile a little as he simultaneously starts talking to Roxy and leading you over to the futon. You’re too busy drowning in your own thoughts to do much more than sit down heavily, tipping over onto your side as he drops Li’l Cal on top of you. He wanders out of the room, leaving you to stare at the ceiling and do something too painful to be considered “reminiscing”.

You really, really hate your father.

Dave comes back an unidentified unit of time later, phone in hand. You have recovered by now, and prop yourself up on your elbows as you take it back from him. “Sorry about that, little man.”

“It’s cool,” he says, flopping down alongside you. When he doesn’t continue, you give him a little nudge.

“Well, what’s the story?”

“Her name’s Rose, and she’s my age,” he says, and fuck, he’s a little excited about this, isn’t he? “She’s only a day younger than me.”

“Yeah?” you lie back down, so he doesn’t have to look up at you.

“Roxy says her aunt wants us all to go to New York, so we can meet her.”

Shit. You inwardly cringe. You’re making ends meet with a little to spare, but there’s no way in hell you can afford there-and-back plane tickets to New York for two, and you don’t own a car even if you could afford the gas.

But Dave just looks so fucking _hopeful_. You’ve kept him safe from what your father did to you, so to him, this has nothing to do with giving someone support or saving them from drowning in their bad memories, the way you and Roxy did for each other; to him, this is just an opportunity to meet a new sister, a new friend. He’s just a kid, nine years old. He probably doesn’t understand how much plane tickets and being away from work for however long would set you back.

He’ll have to learn these things, to grow up, someday. But for now, you can’t stand to upset him more than you have to, so you say, “I’ll think about it.”

And whatever guilt you had about giving him false hope is shoved to the back of your brain when he beams at you.

 

“Dirk Strider?”

“Just call me Bro,” you tell the tall, blonde woman standing next to you, half focused on your conversation with her and half focused on your younger siblings, appraising each other a few yards away from you. “You’re the little lady’s mother, I’m guessing?”

“Yes,” she says, giving you a flirtatious smile. You keep your face passive, but it took about five minutes with Rose for your big-brother instincts to kick in, and you’re not sure how you feel about knowing her mother is a drunkard, no matter how brilliant and rich she is besides. Even if it’s rich enough that she offered to pay you and Dave’s plane fare. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

All you offer in response is a little “hm”, which is pretty rude, but you’re pretty sure that any woman related to Roxy Lalonde will understand that keeping track of your little bro (and sis, now) has priority over civil conversation. Rose notices you watching and gives you a shy little smile, and you distantly recall your list of tolerable people long enough for it to rise to five.

 

(After some arguing between you, Roxy and Ms.Lalonde about how reasonable or unreasonable it was for her to demand you all move out to Washington for Rose’s sake, you instead agree upon a system where you all meet up at Roxy and Jane’s place in New York twice a year, two weeks every summer and winter. The idea of leaving your job for so long makes you nervous, but you like getting to see the girls again, and it’s good to get Dave out of the house. So you guess you won’t complain as long as Ms.Lalonde’s paying for everything.

The visits eventually become something you look forward to.)

 

When you’re twenty-two and Dave is twelve, your little-known love for puppets inspires the Smuppet business. Soon, you are raking in enough cash to quit the part-time pizza delivery job, and actually more than enough to pack up and move into a less-shitty living space. You’ve grown kind of fond of the apartment, though, and when you suggest buying Dave a real bed instead of a mattress propped up on cinderblocks, he looks at you like you’ve gone insane. You can’t bring yourself to replace the futon, either. You suppose you’re both just creatures of habit.

Dave’s doing just fine under your care. He passes his goverment-mandated tests by so much that the CPS grudgingly admits that he would, in fact, be in advanced placement were he in a public school. Unfortunately, you have unwittingly influenced him to be almost as much of an emotionless, antisocial bastard as you tend to be. You don’t think he’d get along with other kids even if you were forced to send him to a public school at this point (here you recall your own experience in middle and high school, and grimace at the idea of inflicting that upon him). You do try to get him out of the building every so often-- you sign him up for summer camp a few times, a martial arts class once, sometimes you just kick him out of the house and tell him not to come back in until he’s had meaningful human contact-- but he resists your efforts. When pressed, he complains that he is just fine with having you around, and seeing the girls twice a year. He doesn’t need anyone else. He doesn’t _want_ anyone else. You can’t use the parental “but you need to exercise _somehow_ ” card, either, because your rooftop spars are gaining in intensity and frequency as he gets older and more skilled.

You occasionally worry that you’ve fucked up with him, but Roxy just laughs and tells you you’re ridiculous, Dirk, only you could devote so much to a kid and still think it’s not enough, he’s pretty much your whole life at this point. You think Roxy needs to learn what it’s like to be a parent-figure.

 

Shortly after Dave turns fourteen, however, the CPS decides that you shouldn’t be alone in thinking that you’re fucking up with your kid. Your “choice of profession creates an unsuitable environment for your child to develop in”, the letter says. It’s a warning, and a choice: keep your job or keep your kid.

Dave is angry that they think he’s too young to know about porn (although in your own opinion, the Smuppet franchise is only _borderline_ pornographic. Much is left to the imagination), and Roxy is angry that they’re breathing down your neck like this.

“I don’t know how th’hell they ‘spect you to get on with yer life when they’re puttin’ so much pressure on ya,” she rants at you over the phone one night, voice full of the drunken slur you have come to expect from her (Roxy took to coming of drinking age a little _too_ well, and you occasionally feel sorry for leaving Jane to deal with her shenanigans alone).

“Huh,” you say in response, idly paging through the official warning again.

“I mean, ‘snot even like yer shoving the shit in ‘is face or anything, if it’s online ‘e’s lookin’ at it of ‘is own volition, right?”

“They _are_ kind of all over the apartment,” you admit. You kick a stray smuppet off the futon.

“It’s still fuckin’ ridiculous, actin’ like he doesn’t know jack shit ‘bout sex ‘n’ stuff. The ‘ntire American culture’s centered on it at this point. Movies can’t be a hit ‘less there’s sexual tension in ‘em somewhere, media’s constantly full of innuendo, magazines at the grocery store right’n kids’ view claiming they ‘ave the best tricks fer pleasing in bed--”

“I get it, Lalonde,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. This entire situation is too stressful.

“You should take ‘em to court, Dirk.”

“That sounds like a really fucking great way to get my ass handed to me and Dave taken into custody,” you say, and your throat goes dry as you imagine Dave being taken into foster care again. It can’t happen, you won’t let that happen to him god dammit. “Look, it’s not like there’s any rush, what I’ve made so far will hold me over until I find a new job no problem, right?”

“Not like you to go down without a fight, Strider,” Roxy grumbles.

“Think of the irony,” you argue. You know she understands what you leave unsaid. Dave is not a risk you’re willing to take.

You sell the rights to the franchise, do a little looking around, and eventually find a job working with robots. It’s been a long time since you fancied yourself a mechanic, and your skills are rusty (pun intended), but your new employers are willing to give you a chance. You have promise, they think, and once you’ve gotten your shit together you might be able to be the factor that puts them in the lead of the robotics industry.

You don’t care. If it makes ends meet and Dave can stay, nothing else really matters.

(You do, however, insist on buying him a real bed, in case the CPS decides to pop in and declare your living quarters inappropriate for the purpose of raising a kid as well. You replace the futon with another futon, because fuck it, that’s where _you_ sleep, and if they have a problem with _that_ then they’re going to need to come up with a pretty goddamn great argument.)

 

This winter, you are visiting New York just in time for Dave and Rose’s sixteenth birthdays. You all go out for a few rounds of laser tag to celebrate.

You’re leaning over a railing, sniping the poor fucks on the lower levels, when Ms.Lalonde mutters something about needing to talk to you after this round. You look up from your shooting to offer a raised eyebrow.

“Y’know, the whole point of this laser tag shit was that the kids are growin’ up,” you say. “Not much you can say to me that you can’t say to them anymore.”

(You ignore the sense of nostalgia this gives you.)

“They won’t quite understand,” she tries to tell you, sober for once, which you suppose should have been your first hint that something was wrong. If anything, you expected her to be _more_ drunk than usual for the birthday celebrations. You know Roxy is.

“Either you killed someone or,” you start, but you never get to finish because Jane comes dashing around a corner, and you’re too busy trying not to let her get you to complete your sentence. In the end, the element of surprise gave her enough of an advantage that she gets you out, and skips off to take your base while you’re waiting for your gun to start working again, damn her.

Dave and Rose both look mildly offended when you tell them to go on without you for the next round, but they do it anyway. You know Dave probably came to the same conclusion you did, because you’ve told him just enough to connect the dots over things like this.

You and the older girls stare down Ms.Lalonde in a corner of the laser tag building’s lobby. Finally, Roxy says what everyone’s thinking.

“It’s about our father, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ms.Lalonde admits. “It is.”

“And you haven’t told Rose about him,” you say.

“She has done perfectly well up to this point ignorant to such matters,” she tries to say, and you and Roxy just _look_ at each other. What are you going to do with this woman?

“It’s bad news, isn’t it?” Jane says uneasily, taking Roxy’s hand. You’re not surprised that they’ve talked about it. You hear discussing emotional baggage is important in a relationship (you wouldn’t know, you’ve never been in one. It’s definitely not because you’re still pining over Jake English or anything, though, it’s been like nine years who even does that. Certainly not cool guys like you).

“Yes,” Ms.Lalonde says. You all wait. “... He’s getting out of jail next month.”

 _Fuck_.

 

You think, by some unknown measure of trustworthiness, that you and Roxy are pretty goddamn untrustworthy. When you got home from laser tag (you’d gone a few more rounds, but your hearts just weren’t in it anymore), it had been well past one in the morning, and you’d all just retired to your respective beds and collapsed. But the two of you drag yourselves into consciousness at seven, drink coffee until you’re mostly coherent, then inflict similar pain on your younger siblings.

“What the actual fuck, Bro,” Dave mumbles against the wood of the dining room table, where the four of you are gathered. Roxy passes him a heavily doctored cup of coffee, which you are _reasonably_ certain doesn’t contain any alcohol, and he lifts his head enough to take a swig from it.

“I must admit my own thought process is somewhat similar,” Rose croaks, her voice still thick with sleep. “I hope there is a purpose behind your endeavors, aside from making all of us as tired and irritable as possible?”

“It’s for you, mostly, Rosie,” Roxy says (Rose makes a face at the nickname). “But we’re, uh, gonna add something at the end that we thought you might like to be around to hear, little Strider.”

“Fuckin’ fantastic,” he grouses.

So you tell Rose the story of your father.

And then you give them the news.

 

“Fuck,” Dave says, then again a lot more viciously, “ _Fuck_.”

“Where,” Rose starts, then swallows, and tries again. “Where was he in custody?”

“Houston,” you admit, your own voice cracking a little under the strain of stress. “He’s in Houston.”

“Fuck,” Dave repeats.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Roxy pats his shoulder with a small, forced smile. “Nothing’s gonna happen. You Striders are just gonna move back up to New York. Think of all the money you’ll save Ms.Lalonde, not having to fly halfway across the country to visit twice a year.”

“But Bro’s job,” Rose says, and you have to admit it’s impressive how practical she’s being about this with everything you just told her. “His-- his DJing is greatly based on reputation, and the work with robotics--”

“Like there’s not a robotics industry in New York,” you shrug, your head clearing a little as you remember your plan. “The DJing is more of a weekend thing, now, anyway. A hobby of sorts. Look, you kids don’t need to fret your pretty little heads over this shit. We’ve got it under control. We just wanted you to be up to date.”

They don’t look any more convinced than you feel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Choc did not, actually, introduce Jake English to the story just to kick him out at the beginning and never bring him back again.

You and Dave go home before the two weeks are up-- before even one week is up, actually-- so you can start packing. Also because you’re not really enjoying the visit anymore, with all the sulking and worrying. You hope it will be a little resolved when you can go back knowing you are out of _his_ range again.

It’s weird, seeing the apartment all cleaned up and empty. You and Dave didn’t have nearly as much shit as it always seemed, when it was all strewn around the Great Strider Bachelor Pad. You get rid of whatever you’re not willing to ship or carry on a plane, which ends up being a lot of your shitty and/or ironic posters, and all of your leftover smuppets. Dave suggests you burn it all in one huge bonfire. You decline on the basis that you have no idea where to legally commit such arson (or where you could do it illegally without getting caught), and wonder if maybe the whole thing with puppets and Li’l Cal traumatized him more than he lets on. You also have to sacrifice your fireworks, and have a hell of a time getting all your swords and technology legally shipped to New York.

“How did you get all this shit _here_ in the _first_ place?” Dave asks you as you’re both leaving the local post office.

“I think I bought it all after we moved,” you admit.

 

You buy a little apartment close to Roxy and Jane’s house, with a vague ominous feeling in your gut that you won’t be there for very long. It’s not much bigger than your old aparment, except that there are three bedrooms, so Dave can have his bedroom and his dark room and there’s still a room left for you.

It feels weird sleeping on an actual bed. Even when you’re visiting the ladies, you sleep on the couch.

You find a new job, closer to home and better-paying than the one in Houston. You have to work longer hours, though. Even if the majority of Dave’s education has been been done through an online program since the CPS fiasco, you still feel bad about leaving him alone in the apartment so much. Jane and Roxy alleviate your guilt by inviting him to their house whenever he’d like. He still manages to beat you home from work every day.

Your new job is designing and building robots to assist guys who go on special expeditions. You weren’t really paying attention when they told you the goal of the expeditions. You’re just given a specific task and told to make a robot that can carry it out, and you’re fine not knowing exactly what they’re used for. On your first day, you stumble across a box of spare parts that, apparently, nobody wants.

“It was destined for the trash,” one of your coworkers tells you, eyeing it with obvious disdain. “Nobody’s gonna complain if you want it, man, but what the hell are you gonna do with it?”

After several months of tinkering around in your spare time, and some helpful ideas (and unhelpful commentary) from your little bro, however, you come to work with your latest pet project, and everyone’s jaws hit the floor.

“You built this,” you superviser clarifies, stunned, as he looks it over. You shrug. “Good lord, man, you must be brilliant.”

You don’t know about brilliant, but you like robots. You also have a reputation to maintain, so you spout off some cool-guy response and head to your section of the building to build the robots you’re actually paid to build.

The Brobot follows you.

“What are you gonna do with it?” the pretty receptionist, having come up to see what all the fuss was about, asks you. You look up from your wiring to cast an appraising glance at Brobot.

“Dunno. Didn’t really have anything in mind, really.”

“You should see what the company will offer you for it,” she suggests. “AI, fully functioning body, weaponizing capabilities... God, they’d be willing to give you the budget for the next decade to have it for the expeditions, I bet.”

“I’ll consider it,” you promise her, and you actually do, if only because you know he’ll get bored cooped up in your apartment (you guiltily remember Dave, and wish that you could convince him to get out and make some friends), and it’s kind of creeping out the people on the bus when you bring him to work every day. You think he’d like the chance to go out and get dirty and quite possibly fight things.

You don’t want to take money for him, because to you he’s a person, just stuck in a suit of metal. It’s only the idea that with growing costs and a failing economy, even the money you have left over from the Smuppet franchise might not be enough to get Dave through college, that convinces you to accept an absolutely preposterous sum of money in exchange for his services. He says he doesn’t mind. You wonder if you programmed him too much like yourself, if he, too, is doing it for Dave.

Dave, nearly seventeen now, is a spitting image of yourself at his age, but somehow simultaneously less sulky and more antisocial. You’re loathe to force him to socialize with the constant threat of having to pack up and move again emanating from Houston, so you can’t complain.

 

You’re not accustomed to being bothered at work for any reason other than to be given a new project, so you’re a little surprised when a coworker pokes their head in your space one spring day and says “Hey, Strider, someone’s in to see you.”

You find a stopping point in your programming and meander down to the lobby. Your heart lurches to your throat when you see Dave standing there, even paler than usual and scrubbing at his eyes under the shades Rose gave him for his thirteenth birthday. You flashstep across the room to him and take him by the shoulders.

“He-- he’s here,” he says, hoarsely, without prompting. “He showed up at the apartment and tried to get the landlady to let him in-- he threatened her--”

“Have you called the girls?” you demand. He nods without hesitation.

“They’re already packing.”

“Good man,” you mutter, brain working overtime. “Fuck. Guess we’re headed to Washington.”

Dave grimaces, but you’re already crossing to the front desk to quietly ask where you might find a form of resignation. The receptionist ogles you, then picks up the phone and, a little nervously, repeats the question to your boss. He comes tearing down to the lobby, looking horrified.

“You've barely been here a year!”

“Places to go, things to do, people to see,” you say.

“The company _needs_ you.”

“Maybe we can ship things back and forth. Would you pay for shipping?”

“God, yes, but why can’t you just stay here and avoid complicating things?”

“Reasons.”

He throws his hands up in surrender. “Will you at least stay long enough to entertain your guest?”

“That’s my broth-”

“Not him,” he says, testily, and Dave puts on a look of mock offense. “One of the young men on the expedition we sent your robot on is visiting the area, and wanted to meet the quote unquote ‘genius who must have been responsible for such a creation’.”

“Hm,” you say.

“Brobot?” Dave clarifies.

“Yes,” you say absentmindedly, and ignore the strange look you receive from your boss. “Can’t say I’m too excited to have strangers in my house right now.”

“He’s bringing the robot with him,” your boss presses.

Reassured that even if your mysterious guest is a cohort of your father’s, he won’t be able to do jack shit with you, Dave _and_ Brobot is around, you give in. “Tell your young man that the robot will know where to come, then. Now can I have the goddamn form of resignation?”

 

You and Dave spend the next day running around the apartment in a panic, trying to get everything packed away and ready for transport as soon as possible. You’ve just taken a break for dinner when the doorbell rings. You both freeze, mouths full of spaghetti, and look at the door. Dave swallows.

“It could be your guest,” he says, pushing away from the table, and your eyes widen behind your shades, because _fuck that is not a risk you want to take get back here_ but you can’t speak around the food in your mouth, so you just grab his sleeve. You exchange a frantic look when the doorbell rings again. After a second in which you still refuse to let Dave answer the door, a familiar metallic voice calls,

“Everything all right in there, gentlemen?”

“See,” Dave says, and you let him pretend he’s not just as relieved as you are. “It’s just Brobot.”

You toss the dirty dishes into the sink to soak while Dave goes to let your guests in. You’re taking a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge with the full intent of bribing him into leaving you to be rude to the stranger in peace when he makes a sound akin to that made by a dying cat, _fuck_ and you drop everything to flashstep to the front room and

You stop and stare.

Brilliant green eyes stare back at you, and Jake English breaks into a grin. “Dirk Strider, where the hell have you been?”

 

Thirty minutes later, you’re _mostly_ recovered from what is quite possibly the most pleasant shock of your life, and Jake has mostly stopped laughing at you for the apparently priceless expression on your face when you’d identified him. You’re sitting at opposite ends of the couch, Brobot and Dave having retreated to Dave’s room to do something or other, and doing something like catching up.

“I knew you were the one who built him, of course,” Jake assures you, nudging your foot with his own. You are still having a little trouble believing this is real. “He’s made is your likeness, after all!”

“So you used him to stalk me,” you manage, in a valiant attempt not to show just how pathetically you missed this stupid, beautiful boy. “I’m impressed, English, I didn’t know you knew how to be that creepy.”

“Tch,” he scoffs, leaning over to ruffle at your hair. You duck out of the way. “Don’t be like that, my good man. I missed you!”

“Yeah, yeah, missed you too,” you grumble, trying to layer a flimsy tone of sarcasm over it.

“I know,” Jake says, smiling knowingly, and your heart does funny things in your chest. You both just sit there for a moment, _looking_ at each other (he looks at you like the shades aren’t there, like he can read your pokerface and _fuck what if he_ can) before you scramble to your feet and hurry into the kitchen.

“Want anything to drink?” you call. You hear Jake sigh, and turn to see him leaning in the doorway.

“Strider, what’s going on here?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about, dude,” you turn back to the fridge and retrieve a bottle of apple juice for yourself. He makes an impatient, frustrated noise.

“You’re acting very strangely.”

“He _is_ strange,” Dave shouts, down the hallway, and you inwardly groan at the reminder that no matter how private you want to pretend this conversation is, your little brother is two rooms over laughing at you.

“And why are half your belongings in boxes? Did you never unpack?”

“Nope, packin’ up now,” you take a swig from your juice.

Jake gapes at you. “You’re _leaving_? Why?!”

“Family shit,” you say, vaguely, trying to remember how much you’d ever told Jake about your father.

“I thought your parents were dead,” he fusses, taking a step towards you (nothing, apparently).

“Mother died when Dave wasn't more'n a baby, father’s still alive.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, _and?_ ” Why does he keep coming closer, what the hell. “What do you want from me, English, an unabridged story of the Strider family tree and how it got us to where we are now?”

“ _Yes_.”

You attempt not to spit out your apple juice in surprise, and succeed. Instead, you swallow and run your mouth. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to grace you with such pleasant tales, but we’re kind of on a timer with this shit.”

“Bollocks,” he mutters. “Complete and utter bollocks.”

“Not like _you_ have time to stick around and catch up, anyway,” you mumble, turning back to the sink to rinse out the empty juice bottle. “Don’t you and the Brobot have to get back to yer expeditions or whatever?”

“Yes and no,” he says, sounding yet again a little closer to you. You don’t dare turn around. “Brobot’s going back to the Pacific expedition--” so that’s where he went that got him so tanned-- “But I’m going to stay within the country from now on.”

“Within the country but still on expeditions,” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder enough to give him a raised eyebrow but _holy shit_ when did he get _that_ close? You turn fully so you can press yourself back against the counter, like it’ll give you a little more space.

“Dirk...” he looks a little hurt. You wonder if you’re just being obstinate, or if maybe you are a little bitter he hasn’t contacted you in the last _ten fucking years_ okay yeah you’re bitter.

“Fuck,” you mumble, running a hand through your hair. “Okay, look, it’s just... We really do need to move as soon as possible, okay? I’m not just bullshitting you or something.”

“I know you aren’t, but I wish you’d tell me _why_ ,” Jake insists. He edges just a little bit closer again; you eye the distance between your bodies warily.

“I did. Family shit.”

“Is Roxy alright?” he frets.

“She’s fine,” you snort. “Probably drunk as all get out, but fine.”

“Roxy _drinks?_ ”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have missed these things if you’d actually fucking _called_ once or twice,” you snap. Then your brain catches up with your mouth, and leaves you and Jake staring at each other. It’s been a while since you saw Jake, but you _thought_ he was the same open book and the fact that you can’t read his emotions right now is a little disconcerting.

“I tried,” he mutters, scuffing at the kitchen floor with a dirty boot. “I really did, I went to your old house-- I didn’t know where you’d moved, Strider, how was I suppose to know?”

“No,” you say. Your voice is a little hoarse. “No, I-- fuck. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Then he closes the distance between the two of you, wrapping his arms around you in a hug. Your brain shuts down; you are tired and scared and you just want to protect _all_ the people you love, goddammit, is that too much to ask?, so you guess you’re all right with this big, strong, warm embrace. In Jake’s arms you feel safe, you feel like everything might turn out okay.

God you are such a fuckin’ _sap_. He doesn’t even mean it that way, you think with a shadow of the crippling heartbreak of your senior year in high school. It’s just a bro-hug. Reassurance between friends.

He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.

… That could be platonic.

And kisses your neck.

That is _not_ platonic.

“English, what,” you start, heat rising to color your cheeks and heart pounding against your ribcage as you try to squirm away. He keeps you trapped between the counter and his body. “Dude, really, what are you doing.”

“Devilfucking dickens, Strider, just shut _up_ ,” he mutters against your skin. It’s not an altogether unpleasant sensation but _what the fuck does he even think he’s doing_. “It’s alright, okay, I don’t know why you won’t just _tell_ me but whatever it is it will be alright.”

Fuck.

Fuck no you are not getting emotional in front of Jake English, you are not getting emotional in front of Jake English, you are not getting emotional in front of Jake English--

You’re definitely getting emotional in front of Jake English. Crying is definitely emotional. You try to take a deep breath-- _maybe if you can calm yourself down quickly enough he won’t notice_ \-- but your exhale comes out as a breathy sob, and he immediately pulls back enough to look at your face. You wipe at the tear tracks hurriedly. He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away, then leans in to kiss the tears away, this is _so_ cliche and is it really even happening? It can’t be. You’re delusional, you’ve finally cracked under all this stress. This doesn’t change the fact that you’re sobbing, however, and eventually Jake gives up on trying to keep up with the increasing flow of tears. He just straightens and hugs you to him again, letting you bury your face in his shoulder and ruin his shirt.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. One of his hands starts rubbing small, comforting circles on your back. “Shhhhh, Dirk, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You want to reply, but you can’t. You don’t even know what words to say, much less how you’re going to get them out. So you just cry, and cry, and cry, and he just holds you, crooning softly until you’re out of liquids to cry.

 

Jake ends up spending the night. Dave, having taken over as the head Strider of the household until you’re back in commission, insists he sleep on the couch. Halfway through the night, you are woken by Jake trying to sneak into your room. Actually, you’re woken by the consequential strife as your younger brother catches him and enforces his words.

You kind of do want the comfort of another human being, though, so you’re secretly pleased when Dave climbs into bed next to you, claiming he’s defending your chastity. If he minds the cuddling he doesn’t say anything.

 

“The ladies send their love and a hex on our ability to do anything by ourselves,” Dave yawns, stumbling into the kitchen. You look up from the eggs you are trying to scramble in time to catch the cell phone he tosses at you.

“Not cool going through my stuff, man,” you say, distractedly, as you look through your texts to confirm what he’s said. Roxy’s exact words are far less coherent than Dave’s translation, but they get the point across, well enough for you to realize that she does, in fact, intend to come over to help and “speed up the process”. “Shit. What do we have left to do?”

“Just packing up the bedsheets,” Dave says, his perfect deadpan slipping a little into a scowl as he adds, “And the vacuuming.”

“Fuck the vacuuming,” you say dismissively, then “shit” again as you try to save the eggs as they begin to burn. Dave must recognize a lost cause when he sees one, because he drops two slices of bread in the toaster. About the time his toast pops out, you give up and scrape the eggs into the garbage disposal. Dave speaks up as you start your own toast.

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Am I going to tell who what?” you ask, just to be difficult.

“Bro.”

“Dave.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Not possible, dude.”

“ _Try_ ,” he insists, leaning across the table. “He should know before we leave.”

“Why?”

The question hangs in the air, and you watch Dave carefully, because this question isn’t for your benefit. You want to see if Dave’s come to terms with just how fucked up the situation is. If he’s brave enough to say it out loud.

He swallow hard, opens his mouth, closes it and swallows hard again, then finally croaks, “In case we’re never coming back.”

“What.”

You both whirl around to see Jake standing in the kitchen doorway.

“What,” he repeats, looking horrified and angry and upset and all other manner of things that you’re not sure you can deal with right now, not coming from him at least.

“Gonna have to be a little more specific, English,” you manage to say. He positively _glowers_ at you.

“ _What_ is going on that’s so bloody dangerous you might not be able to come back?”

“A lot of things,” Dave says, breezily, and oh good you’re not alone in trying to bullshit your way out of this, Strider style. “The war in Afghanistan, for example, or attempting to get between the Lalondes in their fucked-up passive-aggressive mind game shit, or--”

Jake takes several long, quick strides in your direction and makes to grab you by the shoulders. You flashstep out of his reach, casually rescuing your toast from the firey jaws of your broken toaster.

“We might get roped into being child soldiers in Africa, even,” you continue Dave’s train of thought as you butter your toast. “Can’t forget that.”

“Or the nuclear disaster in Japan.”

“Or another earthquake in Haiti.”

“ _Dirk_ ,” Jake says, warningly.

“Volcanic eruptions in Iceland,” Dave says anyway.

“That’s hardly dangerous enough for a Strider, little man, pick something better,” you scoff.

“I’m just going to stay here and bother you and get under foot until you tell me,” Jake threatens. You roll your eyes behind your shades and take a bite of your toast, hopping up to sit on the counter. “Dirk, please.”

“The whole point of moving is that it won’t be a problem anymore, dude. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m going to worry anyway,” he promises, taking a step towards you. You don’t move. “I’ll call Roxy. You know she’ll tell me.”

“I also know you won’t really call her,” you say, taking another bite of toast. You swallow it and continue, “Interesting little stalemate we have here.”

And then Dave (apparently bored of watching you fuck up) says, “we’re being stalked around the country by our abusive, homicidal asshole of a father and we’re moving because he’s found us again.”

You choke on your breakfast.

 

“Jake has decided to move in with you,” Roxy repeats, like she’s not sure she heard you right. “Jake English, from Skaia High.”

“Yeah,” you mutter into your cellphone as you attempt to cram all of your winter blankets into one box. It’s not working.

“Jake English with the black hair and glasses and buck teeth.”

“Yeah.” Maybe if you fold the one on top a little differently.

“Jake English who loved adventuring and had that ridiculously cute accent.”

“...Yeah.”

“Jake English that you’ve had a crush on since--”

“ _Roxy_ ,” you protest.

“Oh my God,” she sighs like she’s never been happier in her life. “Did you tell him, is that why he’s going to live with you? Are you two a thing now?”

“No, he’s going to live with us because he’s too considerate and protective for his own good and our younger brother is an insufferable little bastard who can’t keep his mouth shut,” you bite, finally squishing the blankets into something close enough to submission that you can shut the box, and proceed to duct tape it so it stays that way.

“What does that mean?” Roxy whines.

“It means Dave told him about our father, and Jake decided that he’s going to protect us.”

“That is really fucking adorable, okay, now why haven’t you told him.”

“Don’t question my actions, Lalonde, Dave already does enough of that for the entire family.”

“No way. Hold on, let me get Jane on the phone.”

“What, no,” you try to say, but you can already hear your other ladyfriend chattering away in the background. The phone crackles with static as Jane takes it.

“Strider, I am disappointed in you,” she huffs.

“Shut up, Crocker,” you grumble, but you know exactly why Roxy put her on the phone, and it’s working; you physically cannot be mad at Jane for any length of time. Fortunately, she can’t bring herself to really continue a conversation that makes you uncomfortable for any length of time, either.

“You’re still coming with us, right? We’re all going out to Washington together? Still a thing that’s happening?”

“Still a thing that’s happening,” you agree. Dave wanders into the room and takes the box of blankets from you, gives you a raised eyebrow, then wanders out again. “Can’t leave all those Lalondes alone together in one place without a few Striders to break up the fights.”

“Wow, gosh, are you saying you don’t think I’m capable of taking care of my girlfriend? Is that what you’re saying, Dirk?”

“Shut up,” you repeat, “You are just like the worst ever, Crocker, don’t make me say stupid mushy friend things. I’m not going to say stupid mushy friend things just because you’re pretending you can’t take a joke.”

“Who’s pretending?” she sniffles dramatically.

“You are,” you deadpan. She laughs. You smile a little.

“You should tell Jake,” she says, serious again.

“I know,” you say.

 

By the time dinner rolls around again, Dave (accompanied by Brobot, because you’re sure as hell not letting him wander around town alone with _him_ lurking nearby) drags all of your shit down to the post office to be shipped. You’re left alone in the apartment.

With Jake English. Jake English that you’ve had a crush on since _shut the fuck up, Roxy_.

It’s a perfect opportunity.

You’re not going to take it.

You have come up with several convincing pieces of logic to back this decision up. The first is that, running around the country in a desperate attempt to lose your “abusive asshole of a father”, this is probably not the best time to start up a relationship.

( _Buuuuullshiiiiiiiiit_ , your inner-Roxy crows. _Make it happen, Strider!_ )

The second is that he has just decided he is going to move in with you, possibly for no romantic reasoning at all. Possibly just because he’s a great guy who can’t stand the idea that one of his friends-- _friends_ , you emphasize-- is in danger. If you tell him and he doesn’t reciprocate, which you are ninety-nine point nine repeating percent certain will be the case, you don’t want him to be trapped with you in the most awkward housing situation ever. Because you _know_ , you just _know_ he would be too stubborn and nice to leave over it.

The third is that, in the unlikely event he _does_ reciprocate your feelings and you _do_ get together, you are absolutely, one-hundred-ten percent positive that you will never, ever, _ever_ hear the end of it from Dave and Roxy. Ever.

And these are only the reasons you came up with that assume he reciprocates.

Your cellphone sits on the table in front of you, buzzing away. It’s Dave, telling you about all the consequences lying in wait if you have not told Jake by the time he gets back from the post office. You’re ignoring him, partially because it’s your duty as an older brother to be a pain in the ass but mostly because you know he won’t follow through with any of it (probably). You’re just sort of blankly staring off into space when Jake drops himself down onto the sofa next to you.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at you.

“Hey,” you reply, and try not to think about how much you’d like to do what Dave’s telling you to do.

“We need to talk.”

 _Fuck_ , you think. “I’m listening,” you say.

He pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket, clicks a few times, then passes it to you. You give it a cursory glance, then blanch and reread it again much, much more carefully.

 

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT]

TG: yo english 

TG: bro isnt responding so im going to go ahead and assume that hes not taking me seriously

TG: so just so you know

TG: it is painfully obvious to just about the rest of the fucking world that you two are head over heels in love with each other

TG: and the unresolved sexual tension is thick enough to cut with a goddamn cake knife

TG: so for gods sake

TG: would you just save us all the headaches and fuck already

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT]

 

Your hands start to tremble. You don’t look away from the screen, even though you’ve finished reading, because you can’t look at Jake, you just can’t, oh God Dave _fuck you, you’re supposed to be on my side--_

“Are you alright?” Jake worries, shaking your shoulder a little. You guess you’re not. You feel a little dizzy and nauseous, actually. Like you might throw up. This is just like the most inopportune time to be sick _ever_ , but you’re not sure what you can do to fix it, so you settle for letting the phone fall to the floor and bringing your feet up onto the couch so you can hang your head between your knees. Jake slides his hand from your shoulder to your back, rubbing those same slow, soothing circles, and you let a shuddering breath hurtle in and out of your lungs.

“Do you want me to get you some water?”

“Nah,” you manage to croak, somewhat counterproductively. He takes away his hand. You don’t bother to raise your head, but you can hear the tap running, briefly, in the kitchen, before his footsteps return, and he’s pulling you up and forcing the cup into your hand. You take a tiny sip, just to humor him. He settles back down at your side and starts rubbing your back again. “... Don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” he says, firmly, nudging you until you give in and take another sip of water. “Let me take care of you, Strider.”

“Don’t need takin’ care of,” you try to insist, and he just _looks_ at you, like he thinks the words coming out of your mouth are complete bullshit. Well, it’s not _your_ fault he showed up in your life at a time when you were already teetering on the brink of emotional instability. You are too full of stress and feelings right now to be dealing with Jake English, and you are especially too full of stress and feelings _for_ Jake English to be dealing with Jake English, and you are absolutely _not_ capable of dealing with your feelings for Jake English right now without a complete emotional breakdown.

Which... you guess is kind of happening. Right now.

In summary, Dave is an asshole.

You take another, larger sip of water, and Jake makes a pleased noise. “Feeling a little better now?”

“Sure,” you lie.

“Can we talk, then?”

How about _hell fucking no we cannot?_

“What is there to talk about, even,” you say, possibly a little defensively. Jake gives his phone, still on the floor, a pointed look. “Alright, so my little brother is a delusional bastard, tell me something I didn’t already know.”

“Don’t be preposterous, Dirk, Dave is perfectly sound of mind,” he rolls his eyes. You scowl back at him, because you’ve already ruined your emotionless front so there’s no point in vainly flailing about with the remains.

“Are you kidding me, the kid is-- alright, what are you doing,” you hurriedly put the cup down on the coffee table so you can scramble further away when Jake reaches for you. He just grins and brings his legs up onto the couch with him so he can crawl towards you. You don’t get much farther away before you’re trapped between him and the arm of the sofa. “Okay, cut it out, you can stay right the fuck over there.”

He does pause, giving you a thoughtful look, but he has that shit-eating grin on his face that tells you he doesn’t intend to stay there long. “Of course I _can_. But I don’t _want_ to.”

“ _I_ want you to,” you insist, grabbing a pillow and clutching it to your chest like a shield. He snorts and crawls another foot closer.

“Do you really, now,” he says.

“I really do-- _shit_ ,” you yelp when he lunges for you. You shove the pillow into his face. He pulls back to grumble and wrestle it away from you. You are no match for Jake English in terms of sheer strength, so you’re forced to watch, your stomach twisting up in ways you can’t even identify as positive or negative, as he tosses it somewhere behind you. Disarmed, you lean away when he leans in.

“Why are you trying to run away from me?” he murmurs, his lips only inches from yours. Your breathing picks up speed with your heart. “Am I frightening you?”

“No,” you protest. He leans in just a little more, so your noses and foreheads are touching.

“Well, then, do you have any major objections to my doing this?”

“Your doing what,” you choke.

“Kissing you, naturally.”

This is a prank, it has to be a prank. It’s either a prank or this isn’t Jake English, it’s some flirtatious double bent on fucking with your mind and _mmmmmmn_.

You whimper a little into the kiss, hands flying to his shirt collar with the intent to yank him away so you can yell at him for messing with your feelings like this. He adjusts his angle a little, though, and suddenly you are too distracted to do much more than uselessly curl your fingers into the fabric. His lips are rough and chapped and warm, so warm against yours. When he stops kissing you, you just kind of stare up at him, dazed, as he brings one hand up to cup your cheek and run his thumb across your bottom lip.

“I can’t speak for you, of course,” he says. The words sort of wash over you and register somewhere in the back of your mind. “But I know that Dave was correct in his statements concerning _me_.”

When the implications of this sink in, you flush to the tips of your ears. The thumb on your lip retreats, and he uses his hand to tilt your chin up, so you couldn’t look away if you wanted to. Which you don’t.

“So what about you?” he mumbles. You blink stupidly. “Are you going to tell me where you stand, or will I have to guess?”

You just look at each other for a moment. He’s starting to look a little worried. You’re just trying to figure out how the hell to say _don’t worry, dude, I’ve just liked you since I was a freshman in high school, no big deal_ without sounding pathetic _._

You’re coming up blank.

This mental shortcoming could also be attributed to the fact that the guy you’ve been in love with for the past _twelve fucking years_ just kissed you, and has implied that if given the go-ahead he will do it again.

“Fuck,” he laughs, clearly upset, snapping you out of your reverie. His hand drops from your face. “My... my apologies, my good man, I just. I suppose I just assumed--”

You realize he’s pulling away from you.

“Where the fuck,” you use your grip on his shirt as leverage to drag him back. “Do you think you’re going, I’m not done with you yet.”

He gapes. “What?”

“I haven’t even started yet,” you add, ignoring the interruption.

“Wha _mmph_.”

Even with the element of surprise on your side, within ten seconds he’s monopolizing the kiss again. You can’t say it’s really bothering you. The position you jerked him into is a little awkward, leaving him off balance; he remedies this by bracing one arm on the couch arm behind your head. Then he tangles his fingers into your hair so he can pull you off of him. He grins down at you smugly.

“Whatever you’re going to say, _don’t_ ,” you warn him, experimentally trying to lean up against the grip in your hair. You wince. He chuckles and shifts himself until he’s settled comfortably between your legs.

“It would’ve been too difficult to focus on that and snogging at the same time,” he explains. He ducks down to nuzzle his nose against yours in an eskimo kiss. “Also, your shades were digging into my cheek and it was rather painful.”

You hear the unspoken demand and grimace. It’s one thing risking Dave walking in on you and English making out on the couch. Like hell he’s going to walk in on you and English making out on the couch without even a semblance of an emotional barrier. You refuse to let your little brother see what an absolute puddle of sap this man is capable of turning you into.

“I’ll lock the door...” Jake wheedles.

“He’s got a key, you complete moron,” you deadpan. You let go of him so you can pry his hand out of your hair and attempt to wriggle out from underneath him. He whines pitifully, letting his arm buckle so he’s pinning you in place with his body. “For fuck’s sake, English, next time, okay?”

The grin you get in response is almost blinding, it’s so radiant. “So you concede that you are not opposed to the idea of a ‘next time’?”

“Get off me,” you grumble.

 

He never does, so when Dave finally comes back from the post office (having taken a suspiciously long time), he’s still sprawled all over you on the couch. Minor adjustments have been made, like his head tucked into the crook of your neck, his arms around your waist and yours around his neck. You suppose this new position could be qualified as cuddling.

Dave takes one look at you and gives himself a pat on the back.

“You’re an asshole,” you tell him.

“An asshole who just got you a boyfriend,” he says. He digs his phone out of his pocket to glance at the time. “We’ve gotta meet the girls at the airport in thirty minutes, get up and get your shit together.”

“Get up and get your shit together, English.”

“Make me,” Jake mumbles into your shirt, then grunts in surprise as you put all your strength into shoving him off the couch. Unfortunately, he takes you with him, and now you’re stuck on top of him on the floor.

“Get a room, you two,” Dave says.

 

Jake wants hold your hand at the airport, but you have the fortunate, readily available excuse of carry your goddamn suitcases. You’ve gotten about twenty feet away from the baggage check-in when your sister grabs you by the collar of your jacket and yanks you down to her level.

“So help me, Dirk Strider, if you haven’t told him yet I am going to fucking kill you in your sleep.”

“Classy,” you say. “What’s the weapon of murder?”

“One of those shitty little airplane pillows.”

“Suffocation, then?”

“It’s a legitimate form of murder, don’t look at me like that,” Roxy huffs. She begins tapping her foot impatiently. “Out with it, Strider, am I going to have to do this or not?”

“Do we really have to talk about this in the middle of the airport?”

She grumbles at you, then frowns thoughtfully. “Where’s the little Strider? And English?”

“Probably still bribing someone into getting English onto the plane last minute,” you say dismissively, freeing yourself of her grip so you can straighten.

“Cute.”

“Aren’t they, though.”

“I’m flattered, Bro,” Dave says from behind you. “Why don’t you repeat what you just said to your new boyfr-”

“ _Dave_ ,” you groan, but you’re too late. Roxy squeals in delight, throwing her arms around your neck and basically forcing you to support her full body weight or fall over.

“You grew a pair!”

“Stop trying to strangle me, Lalonde, shouldn’t this negate your murder plans or whatever?”

“Who’s Rox trying to strangle?” Jane calls. You both turn to look (you with a little difficulty) at her as she approaches with Jake. As she nears, she clucks disapprovingly. “Come on, Roxy, I thought we agreed that Strider was still useful enough to keep around.”

“I’m giving him _hugs_ because I’m _proud_ of him,” Roxy declares, giving you a squeeze before letting go and opening her arms to him. “Jake English! Haven’t seen you in forever, man, why didn’t you ever write?”

“It’s not my fault you all _moved_ ,” Jake protests, but he’s grinning as he stoops to give her a hug. “It’s simply smashing to see you two again.”

“And Strider,” Roxy purrs, waggling her eyebrows suggestively at you over Jake’s shoulder.

“Yes, well,” Jake lets go of her and takes a long stride towards you, offering you his hand and a smirk. You raise an eyebrow. “You know what I’m doing, don’t give me that look. You haven’t got luggage to haul around anymore.”

You can’t help it if public affection isn’t programmed into you. It took you two _years_ to get used to the idea of letting _Roxy_ hug you outside of the comfort of your home. So while you’re terrified of fucking this up, and you don’t want to hurt his feelings, and you honestly do want to take his hand, all you can manage is a half-focused twitch of your own before you just look away, staring at your shoes (you really need to get a new pair, or at least get Jane to help you patch these up). Roxy makes a tiny, disheartened noise, and you know she understands that you don’t want to be this way at the same time it hurts her to see it hurting you.

Jake sighs, dropping his hand back to his side. Your insides twist up painfully in response, but before you know it, there’s an arm around your shoulders and lips pressing lightly to your temple. You jerk your head up in time to catch his reassuring smile before he’s turning back to the rest of the group. He leaves his arm draped across your shoulders. You wonder if he’s going to walk around this way until you have to go through airport security.

“Now unless I’m terribly mistaken, we have a plane to catch, don’t we?”

“Dibs window seat,” Roxy crows, and you snort fondly.

“Really, Lalonde, what are you, five?”

“Dibs window seat,” Dave drawls, and while the girls and Jake are laughing, you reach over to whack him upside the head. This is a kid raised by you and you aren’t trying particularly hard, so you’re not surprised when he ducks out of the way. You let your arm drop back to your side lazily.

“Alright, time to get felt up in the name of freedom.”

“ _Strider!_ ”

“They’re just trying to ensure safety!”

“You won’t be as supportive when they decide our laptops are explosives to be disposed of at their leisure.”

 

You end up between Dave and Jake on the flight, with the girls on the other side of the aisle; it’s late enough that you’re all starting to doze off. Well, everyone else is, at least. You grimace at an uncool rush of parental sentimentality as Dave falls asleep against your shoulder. Jake chuckles sleepily, dragging his hand across the seat until it can entangle with yours.

“Washington, huh?”

“Little Lalonde will be thrilled, older brothers around to complicate her life and scare off all potential love interests twenty-four-seven.”

“It’ll be nice to meet her,” he yawns. “Is she a lot like Roxy?”

“Only physically,” you tell him, then yawn as well. “Dammit.”

He snickers at you. “Tired, Strider?”

“Not a chance, man. I can’t help it if you use contagious shit like that on me.”

He just hums, a happy little buzz, and settles down against your side so that, with Dave on your other shoulder, you’re kind of encompassed in warmth. It feels pretty nice, you gotta say. Sort of comforting and safe.

So yes, you’re on the run from your ruined childhood. Yes, he’s trying to worm his way back into your life to ruin your future, too. Yes, you just left behind your job and your home for the second time in less than a year. But you’re surrounded by four of the five people you love, who love _you_ (what the fuck is wrong with them, you occasionally wonder), and you’re on your way to see the fifth. So maybe-- just maybe-- this could all turn out okay.

You squeeze Jake’s hand, and finally let yourself rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, comments (especially concrit!) are super appreciated!  
> Also, I've been on sort of a writing roll lately, so if anyone wants to give me a prompt to roll with, my tumblr URL is the same as my AO3 pseud. Just drop me an ask!


End file.
